


The Rise and Fall of Satan Jacob

by DeedeeWrites, SlimDeedee (DeedeeWrites)



Category: Hataraku Maou-Sama! | The Devil Is a Part-Timer!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Desert Island, F/M, Torture, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:48:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26726203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeedeeWrites/pseuds/DeedeeWrites, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeedeeWrites/pseuds/SlimDeedee
Summary: Emilia Justina has spent a decade driven by the sole purpose of ridding the world of the Devil King Satan, who now lays captured within the church.
Relationships: Maou Sadao | Satan Jacob/Yusa Emi | Emilia Justina
Comments: 35
Kudos: 37





	1. Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Hello :)
> 
> I am currently obsessed with this Light Novel series guys, obsessed. So, here the plot bunny comes. I've been thinking about writing for this fandom for a long time, but nothing truly refreshing had popped into mind until now. I'm not committing myself to it a 100% to this yet, but I am thrumming with ideas I want to develop.

Emilia's blood-splattered path did not begin when she was taken off her father's land. It started later with the dusk of her father's life and the burning of her home. She was ready for the long, arduous battle of retaking each of the conquered continents. She'd tried to take the East First, which she would, later on, categorize as a mistake.

Things between Alciel and herself end with a draw, unfortunately. In the end, it's a battle of attrition, and Alciel's almost impenetrable defense allows him to remain standing against all the odds. Emilia could keep fighting, she could, but then it's in jeopardy whether she'll live another day. Trump cards cannot be wasted. So, back to the training camp, it is. Almost a year later, when Emilia takes to her homeland of the West, she faces a different demon, the Great Demon General Lucifer of the Fallen. It might be how thirsty she is for justice, how much her heart burns from her previous failure. Her strength is enough this time, and tore open by her holy sword, Lucifer spirals at blurring speed towards the ground.

Emilia, her father's last promise crystal clear in her mind despite being a decade old, follows for the finishing blow. She's glad for the helmet she wears because she doubts her expression is very heroic at the moment.

"Hero Emilia," a voice calls out. It's a short, long-haired woman wearing the clergy's diplomatic robes, and Emilia stops on top of Lucifer's fallen form.

"Who are you?" In the distance, she can see her companions hurrying towards them, the demons run around in confusion and fear, unsure now that their leader has fallen.

"My name is Crestia Bell, Hero, from the Inquisition," she bows briefly, "I must keep you from injuring the demon any further."

"Excuse me?" Emilia asks incredulously. What happened to no mercy for the demonic invaders, creatures of heresy and blasphemy poisoning Ente Isla?

"You'll see in a moment," the Inquisitor's eyes remain glued to the heavens, waiting for something. Emilia's patience runs thin. Demonic healing has proven astounding; any minute now, the fallen General could return to his senses, and Emilia, tired now, will have to face him all over again. She looks over at her companions, her posture betraying her disagreement. Emerada's stare is calculating, while Albert only shrugs. Olba, though, smiles benignly and supports Crestia Bell.

"If the inquisition's plan works," Olba tells her, "this war will finally come to an end."

It works.

In moments, the sky darkens, swift like the suddenness of summer rain. The air grows stiff, and if all present did not wield some level of holy magic, surely they'd be struggling for breath from the sheer malice that clogs their lungs like poison. The Devil King himself manifests, and it is the first time that Emilia sets her eyes on her nemesis, the evil she's been working tirelessly towards for ten years. He's tall and dark-haired, the golden horns framing his head are distinctive, as well as the ebony fur and hooves that he has for legs. Indeed, a creature borne out of and for misery.

He barely raises a hand when the magic circle, previously orchestrated, Emilia realizes, snaps into action, and then another and another and another. Twenty-six magic casters in total, she will be informed later, all of them wielding the highest levels of holy magic humans have been able to master. She doesn't realize how out of character it is until she gets to know Crestia Bell better, but Emilia will never forget the complete devotion in her whispered pleas as she begs her god to please, please let it work.

As the circles come alive, burning and blinding even faraway demons, the Devil King Satan howls in rage and pain. Emilia, even a distance away, can see pieces of skin flake off, purified from the spells' strength being cast. She feels cheated that someone else will be killing the Devil King, but that is not the church's intentions. In moments, the Devil King seems to recapture some composure, and beside her, both Crestia Bell and Olba stiffen. Even Emilia, barely understanding the plan in motion, recognizes that the demon is probably holding on longer than expected. His palm raises trembling into the air, and a gate appears below him. The rest of his form, chained from the manifestations of the spells, lays stiff and motionless.

"Until I return, your orders are to retreat and tend the wounded." His voice is deep and angry, unshakeable even as he orders his army to flee. Emilia catches on to the buzzing protests rising from the demons, who've regained order through their King. "Silence!" He demands, looking visibly weighted by the spell and maintaining the Gate open. Emilia feels like they should do something, but in the face of the demon hoards and the Devil King's unpredictable objective, she doesn't dare move. "I gave you an order."

Emilia realizes that she's been used as bait.

From below the church's force, Lucifer's tired voice reverberates through the valley.

"You heard the King," he intones gravely, rising through the air as another demon keeps his arm slung over his shoulder. The fallen angel is in terrible shape, one of his wings mangled, and his entire front bathed in blood. He's pale, but his expression is thunderous. The demon carrying him is lightning fast as he shoots for the Gate and -sheep that they are- the rest of the monsters are quick to follow. In naught but a few minutes, the Gate shuts behind the last of the army that tormented the Western Continent. The human soldiers, most of them on the ground save for Emilia's group and the sorcerer's subjugating the King, hold their breath. Emilia readies Better Half, but it's unnecessary. As soon as the Gate closes, the regal form of the Devil King sags, his contour is darkened where it contrasts briefly with the setting sun, and then, he plummets from the sky.

"Emilia, grab him!" Olba yells, and it's sheer instinct that drives the Hero. She wonders at the development on her day as she flashes fast enough to grab onto the silver-lined robes of the Devil King. She's careful, this could be a trap, but the demon is wrapped tightly in glowing white chains that bite into his flesh, exuding the repulsive smell of burning flesh. Scripture is climbing through his neck, inky black as it roots itself in his magic, spells so cruelly crafted that Emilia suppresses a flinch.

The church was not rooting for the Devil King's death, but his capture. They knew he would come when his General fell and prepared a trap. Emilia was probably not meant to ever defeat him at all.

"Good job, Hero Emilia," Crestia Bell's voice reaches her ears, "we will take him from here."

No.

It cannot end like this.

Inside her, Emilia's anger and thirst for vengeance lay unanswered. She has struck Lucifer down, the persecutor of her father's fields, but thanks to the Devil King and the church's interference, he now roams free once more. Someone needs to pay for what happened to her and everything she's lost.

"I am the Hero. The Devil King, according to the church who took me in, reiterated that he is my responsibility." She bites out in her most diplomatic tone, which admittedly, is pretty rude anyways. "I'm not letting him out of my sight for a second." It's not a request because the truth is they cannot stop her. Olba steps in before the Inquisitor has the chance to.

"Very well, the church has prepared a cell for him in the Central Continent," the Archbishop states, "Emerada if you could? We must complete the seals; those chains won't last forever." Emilia tightens her grip on the robes, spares the Devil King a glance. He's at least twice her size, and even now, the pressure from his demonic energy is nauseating as the scripture roams over his body, suppressing his power. (Emilia's ashamed, but she is a little relieved, maybe, that she won't face him in battle. At the same time, there's nothing she'd rather do than decapitate him on the spot.)

Disgruntled, Crestia Bell follows Emilia through the Gate, as they lead the Devil King to his new abode. She's never laid eyes on it, but she hardly thinks it'll be anything like the castle the Devil King calls home.


	2. Welcome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last time, after appearing in the battlefiel to bail the Demon's Western Forces, the Devil King has fallen into the hands of the church.

Satan Jacob's first memory is the taste of blood and how quickly it cools all around him. He imagines that -as he watches his parents and siblings and aunts and uncles be brutally murdered- some fond memories of them must've crossed his mind. He knows that his life before the massacre wasn't terrible, but for the life of him, his first accurate memory is watching his entrails fly out of him and the sound of his mother's screams. He watches their corpses still, cool down and rot, unable to move. He watches as the crows feast on them, and only desperate, tear-ripping screaming keeps them off himself. Satan barely remembers either of them, or anyone else he might've called family, and so, mourning them is a waste of his time.

Not that he thought he'd have that much time at all. 

For whatever reason, the demon has failed to finish him off, which would've been merciful. Instead, Satan's most vibrant memory of his childhood is the itchy feeling of his middle stitching itself back together at a painstaking pace. It's like he's been sewn back together, like an old cherished ragdoll that should really go into the trash, by a pair of untalented, hesitant hands. It _hurts._

So, Satan's first memory isn't anger or bloodthirst or fear, it's pain. 

* * *

The water is cold enough to burn, and as it shocks him on its way down his face and body, he imagines it is holy. It's a dirt-cheap trick, the effectiveness of sacred magic against demons, but Satan is well-acquainted with the feeling. He is immediately awake but maintains an air of grogginess for appearance's sake. It's not challenging when his body weights him down, the blood flowing through his vein feeling sluggish. He's spelled or drugged, if his capturers are smart, probably both. 

"Awaken, Devil, in the name of the one true god." The voice is low, but it's easy enough to determine that it belongs to a woman. She sounds like very little fun to Satan, but as his joints ache from being pulled up and away from him, and he feels chains wrapped him like the world's most secure caterpillar, he imagines that's probably the way she likes to live life. He raises his chin, barely, and has one instant of panic when he opens his eyes to darkness. He shakes his head and realizes that he has cloth around his eyes. Satan bites down a sigh of relief; he's blindfolded, just blindfolded, nothing more. 

"Is that how you wake yourself every day in the mornings? Doesn't it put you right back to sleep?" He's unsure if he genuinely failed to evoke a reaction or if the woman knows better than utter her distaste out loud. 

"As you've most likely gathered, you have been taken and sealed by the Joint Resistance Force of Ente Isla, and now lay in the custody of the Church, specifically of the Inquisition Panel and its Head Inquisitor." She tells him so with no relish or inflection as if it was all the same to her. " _I_ am the Head Inquisitor, my name is Crestia Bell." 

"And what are you hoping to accomplish with my imprisonment, Inquisitor?" 

Satan finds it amusing that the humans believe they can subject him to suffering he hasn't been through. He has several theories about why they looked for his imprisonment so purposefully, but none of them shall bear fruit. The Devil King clawed his way to the top through violence and cleverness and being willing to hurt and get hurt more than any other demon, the humans don't know pain the way he does. 

"The church wishes to study the sudden increase in demon's experience with Magical Power in the last 50 years. I have been indicated to use any means necessary to procure the information." So, torture then. "But for me?" she adds, "I just want you to pay for the things you've done."

Oh yes, definitely torture. 

* * *

"Is it over?" Emilia asks over the dining table. She's taken siege in the guard's quarters of the dungeon, refusing to be any farther than strictly required from the Devil King. Emerada and Albert have come down from the briefing with some bread and cheese. Timely, because Emilia is tired and hungry, but too stubborn to abandon her post. All her life, she has prepared herself for a long and violent campaign where she would slaughter her way to Devil Castle.

On her first major win in battle, a month into her journey, the Devil King laid injured and unconscious, magically bound a mere doorway from her. Emilia should be happy, but instead, she feels adrift, like her entire life has been taken out from under her. 

"I wish," Albert answers her gravely. 

"Initial repooortss indicate that the deeemons have not retreated from aaaany other continent, onlyyy the Wessst," Emerada's whispery words, tragic as they are, bring with them a sense of normalcy. Some hero Emilia is -gladdened by the continuous despair of her people. Her green eyes travel dazedly towards the black iron door, settling to look beyond the prison to where the worst of demonkind rests inside. The church is confident in their ability to keep the Demon Lord restrained, but not confident enough to keep him anywhere near a city. Emilia and the others had arrived at the forgotten Daisy Keep, 87 clicks away from the Central Continent's capital. Population of 30 divine casters, the mysterious Crestia Bell, Hero Emilia Justina, and her three companions. Over 30 humans hoping to keep contained a creature who razed the world they knew with a flick of his wrist and greed for a soul. "Theee church is sending annnn envoy, to bargaaaain the Devil Kinnnng's life for their retreeeat." Emilia frowns at the statement. 

"Do you think they'll care? I figured one of the Demon Generals would step up and call it a day." Emilia pictures once again the Devil King's sagging form and how not a single soul stayed behind to help the demon. 

"From my experience, at least from the demons I handled in the North, they have significant loyalty to the Devil King," Albert says this with a level of discomfort, and so, Emilia curves her curiosity as to how exactly he could know such a thing. "I'm unsure if it'll be enough to deter their continued advances."

"Yess, but" Emerada rejoins, "their suuuperpower is no longer there. Buuut ours isss." Emilia knows they mean her. The half-angel child that had finally given humanity a fighting chance to stand on equal footing against the invading demons. Whenever the demons were in a pinch, a Demon General, or worst, the Devil King himself would materialize and impossibly turn the tides. The demons were not only numerous, but their commanding officers wielded an ever-increasing demonic power. It was almost like they got stronger every time humanity fought them.

Emilia's eyes drift to the door, where Crestia Bell is awakening the Devil King; she tries not to wonder what must be happening inside the prison chambers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... still have no idea where this is going, and yet, here we are haha. What did you think?


	3. Questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last time, Crestia Bell's introduction interrupts Satan's first vivid memory -that of his parent's death, but it is quickly revisited when the purpose of the High Inquisitor becomes clear. While the Devil King is being questioned, Emilia and her friends discuss what will become of Ente Isla now that the demon army has no leader.

Albert knows that out of all the Hero's companions, he is the easiest one to dismiss. The case for why is arguable from many viewpoints. He hails from no legendary lineage like Emerada, who is seen as close to a holy being as humanity has. He hasn't climbed his way up the Church's perilous social ladder, foregoing amenities, and ambitions to serve the Lord. He is not a half-angel shouldering the responsibility of human survival. Not to say that Albert's own track record is subpar or lacking, but rather, his companions are extraordinary people, even amongst the gifted.

It is a role that suits him well.

Where Emerada is dodged, Olba mistrusted, and Emilia pandered to, Albert _listens._

This is what he's gathered from the last week of living at Daisy's Keep since Emilia's fateful clash against the Great Demon General Lucifer.

The Church was not really planning on Emilia fighting her way towards the Devil King, but she would manage to lure him out of wherever his principal residence is. This plan, which banked on demons having a sense of responsibility for their colleagues, works.

Once the Church has the sealed version of the Devil King, they do not execute him or use him for a bargain, but rather, imprison him in a forgotten castle where he is _questioned_ daily by the High Inquisitor of the Church. An enigmatic, baby-faced woman by the name of Crestia Bell. What information they're looking for and why… well.

 _Anything and everything_ is the deadpan answer the High Inquisitor offers from across the dinner table. (Albert takes note of how little she eats, eyes far away from the poultry and potatoes on her plate and curves his imagination lest he loses his appetite as well.)

Olba, who Albert trusts with his life, is in on whatever plan the Church is pushing. Probably has been from the beginning, a worrisome thought considering that after the passing of Emilia's father, Olba became her guardian. Why would a man so close to the Hero be remiss in informing the assault group looking for the Devil King of the Church's plan? Why make Emerada, Albert, and Emilia believe in the need for an arduous, long-term war campaign? Why assure that Emilia is the _only one_ able to kill the Devil King when in the end, sealing magic is used?

The last one crucial inquiry is: despite the consistency of the visits, Crestia Bell has not managed to extract any sort of useful information from the Devil King – not the reason behind Ente Isla's invasion, the location of his stronghold, the increase of demonic magical power in the last few years. Nothing.

Albert hates to think about it, but either the High Inquisitor doesn't have it in her -which he's inclined to believe- or the Devil King is going to be just as much trouble bound and seal as he was before. Right now, humanity is wide open. A few days ago, the fight was about re-taking, and all their plans are based on layouts and information that was accurate under the Devil King's rule. What will the demons do now? Remembering their absolute chaos when Lucifer fell in battle gives him some hope. Ideally, the answer is that no one else will rally the demons, and they'll either be hunted down or retreat.

The mountain sage remembers Adramelech and the way he spoke of the Devil King, the being behind the honoring of Adramlech's promise: no human who surrenders shall come to harm. It's an old, faded memory that Albert has never shared, but it floats up to the forefront of his mind since Albert saw the Devil King -a dark, horned nightmare- burst onto the Western Planes. He also theorizes that things for humanity might be even worse without a tempering hand at the helm of the demons.

Looking out onto the barren fields of Daisy's Keep, once a bustling townhouse whose people were chased away by drought and famine, Albert wonders if maybe, the demons will come for their King. If they will march unhindered to their doorstep with neither flora nor fauna to detain them, and only 35 souls between them and their King.

What will they do then?

* * *

Crestia has not gouged out the Devil King's eyes, but sometimes she really wants to. The daily sessions of questioning are emotionally taxing in ways Crestia could have never foreseen. They stretch her patience to the edge and have her fisting tiny hands and grinding down on her teeth, both terrible habits. The ongoing commentary, plenty of it mocking her appearance or criticizing her _technique,_ is all levels of annoying and adds a whole other layer to the feeling of wishing death upon the Devil King.

Truthfully, for all that the frustration and mocking are frustrating to the point of being comical, it does nothing to lighten the mood.

The prison, four walls of holy black iron that emanate tranquility as soon as Crestia steps into its chambers, reverberates daily with the Devil King's agonizing screams, soaking in Crestia's increasing guilt. Not even the annoyance, the pain, the memories, or honor make the garish work any more comfortable. Crestia has never been trained in questioning, much less torture, but when needed, causing pain was always enough.

Human beings do anything to avoid pain or permanent damage; Crestia had naively believed they could share such a basic instinct with demons as well.

Alas, she slices along thin, pale flesh and whips rivers of blood upon a bare back. Burns paths of sigils down thick forearms and learns to waterboard specifically because nothing else works. The Devil King screams and panics and curses at her, but then gathers himself and smirks her way. Weakened and hungry and bound, but every bit just as infuriating and unapologetic as when he got there. Crestia wanted him to suffer, she did, but she didn't think it would take _days._ (She comes to terms with the realization that she does want the Devil King to suffer, just not by her own hand. It sinks in very quickly that blood dripping onto concrete and a throat rubbed raw from screaming do very little to fill in the empty grief inside her but very much for her unavoidable nightmares.)

(Crestia hates herself for her weakness as a corner of her heart sighs in relief. What would she have done if she'd fancy this?)

The problem is, now that her anger and bloodthirst have dulled, the pressure to deliver is only getting higher, and if her rudimentary methods do not work, Crestia has to up her ante. She chops three fingers, maybe in much too quick succession to accomplish the necessary psychological horror. She nails another three to the wall behind the Devil King's head. (This one results in holding the shoulder joint in an impossible angle. _Crafty,_ the Devil King intoned, impressed. When did the workings of the church appeal to the evil they were trying to fight?) She burns, pokes, cuts, scrapes down his legs and his torso, his clothes an ever-shrinking rag.

She looks at the blacked, flaked skin of his thighs, the almost artistic care of the butterfly knife swoops in out of his knees and calves. The shaggy black hair is matted and bloodied, but she focuses on this area because it's easier for her than his bare skin.

"You know," the Devil King intones, voice low and gravely. His ribs are bruised, and since yesterday, whenever he breathes, a wheeze escapes his lips. The last week might just kill him, and Crestia has never yearned for such a thing more. With each passing day, she worries that he will outlast her, that the Devil King's inhumane tolerance for her increasingly depraved and creative tactics will survive much longer than Crestia's shaky grasp on her sanity and self-hatred. "Is this your audition for my army?"

_How dare he?_

A million thoughts run through her mind, one at the core of them all.

Crestia is not like him.

She's not.

She's not, she's not, she's not, she's not.

Her face has fallen in shadow, eyes wide open and unfocused upon hooved feet. Her shaky fingers reach almost blindly to the flask available on the table, flashing silver even on the flickering torch-light of the prison chambers. She bares her teeth, a cornered beast with too little food, sleep and will to live, and pours the holy water on the open wounds.

(She's never brought herself to do so before, and the steam that rises as it burns upon impact is nauseating.)

"I'm nothing like you," she hisses.

The Devil King _screams,_ a sound inimitable by Crestia's human throat but felt deep within her heart. After a few minutes, the holy water has dissipated enough to leave only the soft buzzing of its last drops left, a similar sound to hydrogen peroxide on a human wound. The Devil King is panting desperately, writhing uncomfortably, desperate to not accidentally pull on his trapped fingers, still bleeding lazily in their place as wall décor.

Crestia stands there, more frozen than impassive, and has the passing, faraway thought that she must've done something wrong for this to be her life. (She's done plenty.)

Finally, the Devil King stills and raises his head slowly. Dirty, sweaty hair sticks to his forehead, leaving visible a single red eye. Even now, bloodied and dirty, looking nothing like the King who appeared right into the Church's trap, his gaze mocks her.

"I never said you were."

* * *

It happens on the seventh day. Emilia, sitting at the same cornerstone table as every other day, watches the High Inquisitor hurry off the Devil King's prison a whole hour earlier than usual. The evening visitors, casters working to reinforce the Devil King's bonds, won't arrive until after lunch. The moment is now or never. If Emilia wishes to speak to the creature responsible for the derailing of her entire life. It's now.

Emilia watches Satan's bloodied form and tries to remember that she has the moral high ground. That a couple of hours of _questioning_ is nothing compared to what Ente Isla has been through. She tries very hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's given this a follow, we're such a small fandom it warms my heart to know there's people interested in this capricho of mine.
> 
> take care,
> 
> dee


	4. Turning Tables

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last time, Albert analysis humanity's standing against the Kingless demons, while Crestia reaches the end of her rope with the Devil King allowing Emilia to sneak and see him.

"What are we going to do?" Adramelech looks at the round table. Behind them, the imposing throne of Devil Castle lies dark and emptied, even when the barriers and the magic in the air remain oppressive. As if the Devil King's gaze was still upon them, there's no way to tell if the enduring enchantments mean that their King is alive.

"...do we have to do anything?" Lucifer, bare-chested because of his wounds, lays sprawl on his chair, twisting a violet-colored lock in between pale fingers.

"Lucifer!" Alciel bursts from his own chair, the long, scaled tail swishing angrily behind him as he leans forward to point an accusing finger. "We are in this predicament because of your incompetence!"

"The Lord made his choice, he could've let Lucifer die." Malacoda shrugs, only his shoulders indicating the gesture. His wide eyes and marking remain unmoved; one may wonder if the Malebranche leader is capable of expression.

"Upper echelon demons take responsibility for their subordinates, as Demon General's I expect you to know at least that," Alciel answers waspishly, glaring at both of his companions.

"Taking responsibility and dyin…" Alciel's tail digs deep into Lucifer's neck, enough so that blood slicks itself down the fallen angel's chest. His eyes narrow and glow, but is careful not to move and aggravate the injury further. Alciel thought of hitting the patchwork, keeping him together after the Hero's blow, but holds himself at the last moment.

"The Devil King," he threatens, "is not dead and never again dare you to utter such blasphemy out loud."

"Calm yourself, Alciel," Adramelech chides, but his previously simple posture changes to reach for his Demonic Halberd. He'll be vicious if their meeting comes to blows.

"The troops will grow restless, should we contact Camio?" Malacoda wonders, "I trust myself to keep the Malebranche in line, but you, on the other hand,…" No one picks up on the throwaway bait.

"No, lest the masses back home, we need more information." Alciel denies, abruptly letting go of a fuming Lucifer, and once again taking his seat. "Lucifer, spread your troops amongst our conquered lands, take with you only the scouts. Locate the Devil King." Alciel lets out a sigh as his eyes drift to the ebony throne. "Adramelech, Malacoda. We must not lose any more terrain. Once our Lord is back, we can think about recuperating the West."

"Who put you in charge, Alcciel? We are all Great Demon Generals serving the Devil King!" Malacoda spits out, the shadows in the room seem to grow longer in his anger.

"Do not be mistaken that I am distinctively aware of your circumventing the Devil King's restrictions, Malacoda. Your troops are bloodthirsty, and the enmity you've raised within the human is the reason they've concocted such a backhanded plan. I am our military strategist, or did you forget how you managed to settle in Southern Lands." Alciel looks over the table, but Adramelech holds no objection, and Lucifer is standing up, ready to leave. Regardless of his bravado, the white-haired demon believes him to be invested in their King's well-being. "I can most definitely fight you for the right to lead if you'd prefer."

"Find the Devil King fast, Lucifer," Malacoda sniffs, his angered tone incongruent with his unblemished appearance, "or our war with the humans will be the least of our problems."

* * *

"I can hear you," the harried voice greets her as Emilia invites herself upon the prison chambers. "Smell you too, I saw you out on the Western Plains. The Hero?" His voice seems to be wondering, but his head points directly at her, sharp canine showing through his self-assurance. "Isn't it?"

Smart, Crestia had called him in their last dinner conversation, very cunning.

"It's irrelevant," his lips seem to fall a little in surprise, before curling even further up his cheeks, they pull at the scabbed slices dragging down his throat. Emilia doesn't know where to look, but she avoids the bleeding fingers pinned to the wall the most. How can anyone…?

"A woman," he whispers in surprise, unknowingly pulling Emilia out of her thoughts, "who would've thought?"

Unlike a lot of other men, the Devil King doesn't seem put out by the discovery. If Emilia had to describe it, she'd say he was… intrigued. Now that Emilia is thinking about it, she has never met a female demon before. All of the ones fighting at Ente Isla were men. Are there no women… or is there an entire population of them that just have never seen war? She shakes her head, keeping the idea in the back of her mind but decisive about the answers she came to take.

"I want to know why you did it."

"Oh, your agenda seems different to the High Inquisitor's," he notes in the same raspy, pained gasp, "No insults? Recriminations? Promises of pain? Or are those above your station, Hero?"

"I want to know why you did it," she repeats, feeling her temper close to the surface. Emilia has been preparing herself for this confrontation almost her entire life, but it's hard to keep her emotions in check now that she's really here. She keeps thinking of the last time she saw her father's face, about his promise, forever to be kept uncheck.

The man slowly raises his head; the movement is groggy and painful, betraying how disoriented the demon is.

"Why did you do it?"

"I fear you'll need to be more specific; I have done many things." Like killing my father, immediately comes to the forefront of her mind. Emilia means to ask why the Demons invaded Ente Isla, but instead, a more pressing issue overtakes her curiosity.

"Why did you allow your demons to flee without you?"

"I am their King."

Emilia asks again, berates him, and curses at him, but the Devil King says no more.

* * *

Emerada Etuva smiles airily at the dinner table; she's always enjoyed eating, but politics -and she makes no mistakes about the daily conventions taking place- have never been her favorite pastime. Her dinner companions aren't too bad, but there's certainly a lot of entitlement and tendency for being self-serving at the table. Crestia Bell, who represents the Church's interest and Olba, are worrisome figures, primarily because Emerada has a rising understanding that they do not have the same goals. Olba has been pressing the Inquisitor for time alone with the Devil King for days, but the Inquisitor has politely but firmly refused. An interesting approach, her success has been limited, and Olba -as an archbishop of the Church- is her superior.

Albert is predictable only in how deceptively clever he can be, but Emerada believes that in the end, he might be the only person on the table who joined this campaign only to help drive the demons back. She knows he has some background in politics, but the Northern lands are so isolated from the rest of the world that none of this war business has a chance of paying off for him. Finally, there's Emilia. Emerada has known her for years, and she considers Emilia her friend. The teenager is hard-headed and loyal, impulsive, and kind, but politically speaking, she's a wild-card. She's probably the most significant figure of this entire conflict, other than the Devil King himself. That's a lot of power for an unaffiliated, seventeen-year-old girl. Emerada worries about the Church's intentions with Emilia, now that everyone who matters knows she's been trained to be bait.

Dinners have become rather mundane, even the subtle power plays going undisturbed. Olba and Crestia Bell discuss Olba's role in the Demon King's questioning again when Emilia interrupts. The first exciting thing that's happened in days if anyone were to ask the magician.

"I spoke with the Devil King today," Emilia is going for subtle, and she throws her comment onto the conversation without much preamble, not even looking up from where she's cutting up her dinner.

"Excuse me?" Crestia Bell narrows her eyes, but her pallor is palling. Emerada wonders in what state the Devil King must be in.

"E-Emilia," Olba stutters, "why would you do such a thing?"

"I had things I wanted to know, and some brief time in between Bell's visits and the casters," her tone is unapologetic, but Emerada knows her enough to notice the clenched fist in her lap.

"Aaaan?" Emerada prompts because there's a reason Emilia brought this up -other than getting herself in trouble surely. "Did hee saaay, anyyything?"

"I thought his powers were weakinening."

"They areeee," Emerald answers, "the caaasters are workiiing on his booonds everydayyyy."

"He recognized me as the Hero immediately," Emilia replies, looking at Emerada, "from my scent. I'm not saying they're doing a bad job, he's still locked up after all, but… is he supposed to be able to do that?" Olba's frown is dark on his face.

"No," he admits grudgingly.

"Also, have we ever given any thought as to why we've never seen female demons? The thought has been bothering me all afternoon."

"They exist," Albert assures her, "but they were left behind for some reason. It is not wise to assume they're not battle-ready. Until recently, the invading forces didn't need further help after all."

"Did he say anything else, Emilia?" The Hero, pursuing her lips in displeasure.

"After I asked him why he allowed his demons to flee without him, he answered that it was because he was their King."

"That's all?" Albert asks in confusion, but Emerada notices the way Crestia Bell straightens up.

"Hero Emilia, I have an idea that might provide further answers from the Devil King." The High Inquisitor doesn't precisely look pleased, but she seems somewhat hopeful. "May you lend me your assistance?"

"Mine?" Emilia sputters out in confusion, caught completely off-guard by the earnest request. At Crestia's nod, she takes in a deep breath throwing one look at Emerada. The magician doesn't offer neither disapproval nor encouragement; this is Emilia's decision after all. "Okay," she nods, hesitant, "I'll help if I can."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's slow going and I remain hesitant, but here's another chapter! :D
> 
> Take care,
> 
> Dee


	5. Human

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last time, unrest brews in the demon's upper echelons, meanwhile Emilia retells her companions about her first encounter with the Devil King.

Layla's fragment is always cold, and Satan would never admit to drawing comfort for it, but as the days in prison get longer, the purple stone is grounding. It is a little ironic that Satan, who campaigned against senseless violence, would be captured under torture. Or perhaps, it is not as ironic as him having started a war. Today, the pendant feels tepid against his ribs.

Satan hasn't felt like himself in days, not since he was brought to the prison, but there's something different today, a stabbing sensation. Like his innards are attempting to fight themselves. It's foreign, and he wonders if he's been poisoned while unconscious. He tries to sleep lightly, but as more and more of his magic is stolen, the pain makes it hard to stay awake. He's fallen asleep during his morning sessions more than once now, much to the High Inquisitor's annoyance and ill-hidden embarrassment.

"Torture so weak-willed it's put me to sleep, High Inquisitor, you'll never become a Great Demon General at this rate." Mocking the high-inquisitor is pointless and counterproductive, he knows, but there's little else to do, and there's nothing he can say to make her hate him more. Satan can see it in her eyes every time she looks at him; he - or at least, the demons he commands - stole something from her. No petty joking or mild embarrassment can trump that, no matter how she tries to fool him that it will. He also would not like her in his army, conflicted and kind as she is, but comparing her to demons always strikes the right chord within her. Satan knows that it can only bother her if a small part of her believes such a thing too. It's an exciting discovery, something he hadn't stumbled upon yet in his constant research, the power of words.

Today, when she enters his chambers, the pain invigorates him, like a shot of adrenaline to the system, and fades as fast as it arrived. Satan contemplates if this encompassing heaviness that he's feeling is death. The High Inquisitor's words have traveled in and out of his conscious thoughts as if his brain is only processing some notes of a music piece. It's distorted and faraway. He thinks he's calling her name, and there might be a pain somewhere, but he's… so tired? He cannot even raise his head to look her in the eye. In fact, he cannot keep his eyes open at all.

* * *

Emerada stares at the resting figure; the Devil King half-sits upon the infirmary bed, his hands are shackled to the edges of the mattress, but nothing else restrains him. There's no real need. Emerada stares at him perplexed, and the Devil King quickly grows annoyed at her staring. There's not much he can do about that.

"Hunger," he repeats again; it's neither a question nor a statement, instead, an affirmation of confusion. The Devil King acts like he has never heard the word before. Naturally, he has, but Emerada figures he's trying to contextualize himself in it.

"You're soooo younggg," the magician says unthinkingly, and red eyes snap to her in a fury. She had seen nothing rattle him so far, not when he sacrificed himself on the battlefield, not on his capture, and not in his questionings if what the High Inquisitor says is true. Now, staring down at soft, tanned hands, he seems inexplicably youthful and lost. It reminds Emerada of Emilia's first quest, so much promise of power, and so little maturity to wield it. She'd been so relieved that they'd been granted more time.

"I am older than everyone in your living family," he snaps back.

"Deeemons live a looot longer thaaan us though, dooon't they?" Emerada reasons, "If thisss is thee shape youuur bodyy takes, youuu are still younnng for yourr race."

"What did you do to me?"

"It's a neeeew seal," she explains patiently, watching every expression that crosses the round cheeks and wild hair. "Blooocks your aaaability to regeeenarate maaagic. A demoon that doesss not possess magic, is as mooortal as anyone. You' reee human."

"Hunger," he deduces.

"Indeeed, this new bodyyy of yourss. It has to eeeat. You hadddn't saaaid anything, so we thought thaaat it had not worrrked yet."

"That's what I've been feeling," the Devil King takes one shackled hand to his abdomen, murmuring under his breath, "hunger."

"We weeere lucky, youuu were goiiing to dieee, which would've been baaaad."

"Die?"

"Uhm! If huuumans don't eaaat, they dieee."

"Is it… is it permanent?" he seems to ponder on their line of conversation and tags on to clarify, "the spell."

"Umhhh? Nooo, it's a seaaaal."

"I see," and from there, he says no more. Emerada wonders, the Devil King is more polite than she would've foreseen. It might be childish, but she expected more of 'you'll pay for this' or 'undo this right now'.

"Youu'ree very caaalm."

"Oh no, I assure you, I'm panicking," his tone is polished. Emerada recognizes someone well-educated. If he is truthful or not is difficult to tell, reason dictates that he must be feeling _some_ adverse reaction to humanity being able to lock up his magic. She watches him eat the offered soup, and Emerada has to teach him how to hold the spoon. It's a surreal experience. "Why don't you just drink it from the bowl? Why is this" - he waves the spoon with disdain - "necessary?" Emerada hides her smile under her palm demurely, amused by the incensed reaction to cutlery.

"Somee do," she watches him click his tongue in annoyance, placing the spoon down and reaching for the bowl, "buttt it's consideeered rude. Etiquette requiressss a spooon." And her guess had been right. Frowning moodily, Satan dutifully grabs the spoon and tries again, tremulous fingers bringing the lukewarm liquid to pursed lips. He offers no explanation for his sudden change of heart, and the magician does not question it; she's figured it out by herself.

A Devil King concerned with manners, who would've thought?

* * *

When Emilia comes in the next day, the blindfold so tightly wound around the Devil King's eyes is loosened around his neck. The Devil King's eyes, last time Emilia saw them, shone a hateful red, but now, they are dull wine color. They snap towards her form, red-haired and in ordinary clothes. She's unsurprised that the Devil King fails to recognize her, but she's not expecting him to confuse her with someone else. There's something hopeful in his gaze, vulnerable.

"Layla?" the Devil King inquires, the chains around his wrists clink together as he struggles to sit up. The demon hissed when the skin rubbed raw chafes against the holy iron, though it probably has no particular effect against him now. Emilia ignores the tendrils of dried blood, extending down to his elbows. They can take no chances with this creature. She's just bothered by the guise the scriptures have given him. Removing the demonic power has made him -at least temporarily- human, and Emilia needs to remind himself that horns or not, this demon is responsible for the war that has shaped the entirety of Emilia's life.

"Who's Layla?" she answers reflexively, narrowing her eyes in suspicion. The Devil King blinks as if shaking off a memory and frowns.

"Forget it," he bites off. His eyes do not miss the opportunity to examine her, taking in every weakness. Not that at first glance, Emilia looks like much of a fighter. In fact, so often she wears her full armor, much of the masses believe the Hero to be a man. It bothered her at first, but in the end, Emilia isn't looking for fame or glory. Her dream, after all, is going back to being a mere farm girl.

"These are human feet," he tells her, and Emilia has dealt with enough royalty to detect a hidden question when she hears one. She's petty enough to ignore him, but she thinks this is a piece of information she'll relish giving. She knows Emerada has already informed him of this, but it's not foolish to verify the information and find gaps in asking multiple people. _Cunning,_ Crestia Bell called him.

"A side-effect of the seal keeping you here. Apparently, this is what happens to demons when they lose their demonic power. They become just as human as the people you tried to enslave. Irony at its finest."

"You did not come yesterday," he looks her over, "Hero." Does he recognize her voice, or is he taking a guess? Emilia thinks about saying no to throw him off, but in the end, Bell requested the Hero's help.

"I am not obliged to spend all my time cooped up here with you; this punishment is only for the demon who terrorized Ente Isla."

"And yet, here you are."

"I've spent a long time chasing you," Emilia replies, green eyes narrowed on his pitiful figure, "just making sure you don't run off anywhere else."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not feeling this entirely, but I'll get it done hahaha! We'll see how it develops!

**Author's Note:**

> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Slim_Deedee_)   
>  [Tumblr](https://deedee-writes.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Also, if you enjoyed it remember you can leave a comment or kudos, or both!


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